


Nothing Personal

by firefright, Skalidra



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Almost Sex, Asexual Character, Asexual Jason Todd, Dom/sub Undertones, Flirting, Kink Exploration, M/M, Spanking, respecting boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24722860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Jason's never been that interested in sex, except as a tool to help him get what he wants and a way to please the people around him. What he does enjoy, however, is the part that comes before it (especially being treated with a firm hand). Finding someone willing to understand and respect both those aspects of himself has always seemed impossible, though. That is, until Slade comes along.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 44
Kudos: 511
Collections: DC Aspec Week





	Nothing Personal

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! So this fic was inspired by an old interview with Judd Winick about Jason's sexuality in which he makes comments that suggest Jason could, in some ways, be on an asexual gradient, and as ace people ourselves, we couldn't resist the urge to explore that a little in fic. (By the way, Roman makes a brief appearance in here, and we borrowed his Birds of Prey characterization for a bit. Just to have some fun.)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It's about hurting Bruce, the first time. Jason's not under any illusions that it means anything, not between him and Talia. She scratches marks into his biceps and shoulders, he leaves bruises on her in turn, and there's an understanding that the sex is just a weapon shared between them, aimed at someone who's done them both the kind of irreparable, lasting damage that leaves scars, visible or not.

For her, it’s a way to take revenge for the love she’s been denied, sully something Bruce supposedly cares for in a way he’ll never be able to fix. Maybe that’s the appeal of it for him, too. He’s not interested in Talia, he doesn’t find her attractive and he doesn’t feel anything but the physicality of it underneath the bitter anger, but it does feel good in the moment to give away, recklessly and dangerously, something he knows he’s supposed to care about. Something that Bruce was supposed to care about. Just like him.

It doesn’t matter, one way or another. By the time he's in a position to tell anyone about it, he doesn't want to. The urge to throw the act in Bruce's face is gone, so it sits deep in his chest, a petty, bittersweet secret of a memory. He never brings it up. There's no point. He's not Bruce's son anymore, and even if he was, not protecting him from the predatory advances of an older woman is such a useless grievance compared to the ones that matter that it feels ridiculous to bring it up. It's never going to be as effective a weapon as the real things Bruce failed at, anyway. A little underage sex pales in comparison to being murdered.

After that, well, he’s busy. Sex only crosses his mind on occasion, and he never really puts any time into it. When he gets the itch, he gets off, and leaves it at that. It’s not like sex is all that great, anyway.

Until Kori. She enjoys it, wants him to enjoy it, and he actually does. It's fun. Feels good enough he doesn't mind it most of the time. It makes her happy, and even when he’s just not into it himself, Jason enjoys that, at least. She deserves to be happy. Roy shows up right when the attention and the intimacy Kori’s pressing on him starts to get suffocating, and he reciprocates everything Jason doesn't, so that works out. He leaves them to it.

Isabel is the first civilian, and the first one that’s content to let him lead. That's different. He's not sure if he expects to feel more or less interested in the whole thing, but it's the same. Different touches, different acts, different things to say and ways to move. It’s good, but it’s nothing special. Not that he’s sure he actually understands what ‘special’ is supposed to be. Sex is sex; what’s so ‘special’ about it?

The whole thing is bad timing, though. Isabel gets caught up in his life, mistakes his protection for deeper caring and presses that assumption on him like it’s fact. It sets him on edge, makes him uncomfortable how clearly she feels more than he does about it all. He didn't want… more. Not really. Clearly she does. There's something to her touches after that, an intimacy that mirrors how Kori behaved — long looks and lingering touches, and a knowing smile that makes him uneasy with all its implications. He doesn't like the pressure it puts on him.

He's not proud of the message he sends her to 'break up,' but he's got work to do, and dealing with a relationship he never asked for isn't on his agenda.

He leaves her an emergency number, just in case. Just because he doesn't want a relationship with her doesn't mean that he doesn't want her to be able to contact him, if she needs to. There are definite dangers to even being suspected of being some kind of side-piece to the Red Hood, and Jason would rather she not get targeted at all, but if she is, he'd like her to have some way to get a hold of him.

She leaves him a very angry voicemail. He listens to it; he figures he owes her that much, at least.

Sex is a tool. He thinks he knew that from the start, back on the streets doing whatever he had to just to scrape by another day, but it slowly cements itself in his mind. Sex is useful. It makes people happy, or hurts them, or makes them dumb or receptive, and that's valuable. It always seems to matter to people, one way or another, and if something matters, it has value, whether real or imagined. If he can make some possessive asshole jealous that someone else has him, or convince some piece of shit that no, all he really wants is a _fuck_ , then they're easy to flip the tables on.

Attracted, equals aroused, equals dumb. He likes his enemies dumb. Sex can be as much a weapon as the rest of his arsenal, and he gets pretty damn good at using it.

It's the same petty, bitter part of him that fell into bed with Talia that makes him walk into the middle of a big villain meet-up with a goal to do something dumb and reckless. As the Red Hood, sometimes he gets invitations to things like this. He's not really a villain, but he's not quite a hero, and sometimes people like these still think that he can be bought. Especially when he's fresh off of big, public fights with various bats.

It's Dick, this time. Being an asshole, refusing to back off, all of his normal bullshit turned up to eleven. Acting a little too much like Bruce, for Jason's preferences. So screw him, but he wants to do something that precious golden boy Dick won’t approve of. Maybe he’ll get a grip on some of the Bludhaven drug trade, or just break into Titan’s Tower and cause a little mayhem. To the building, not the Titans themselves, of course. Just enough to get them annoyed at their once-leader.

There’s a decent gathering here. Major villains from the galleries of a whole collection of various heroes, that Jason is either personally familiar with or at least knows the reputations of. It’s easy to see which ones don’t know who he is, because they give the bat on his chest sharp, suspicious glances and sneer his direction behind their hands. Borrowed reputation can be handy; he doesn’t care what they assume, so long as they don’t make a move.

Here, surrounded by metas and geniuses of various lethality, all firmly on the grey if not black side of morality, Jason knows he’s free to do whatever the fuck he wants to anyone that tries laying a hand on him. Shy of actual murder, anyway. Probably. Or maybe that would make all of them respect him more, it’s hard to say. Maybe he’ll try it someday.

Jason makes a slow circuit around the room, letting others avoid him as they want to but not making any effort to do the same. There are a few Gotham villains in the collection, but they’re all very obviously keeping their distance. Jason lets them; he’s not here to fuck with Bruce, not this time.

Except, of course, one Gotham villain that makes a beeline for him. Of course he does.

In a whirl of obnoxiously leopard-spotted, white fabric, Roman Sionis inserts himself into Jason’s personal space like he belongs there. An arm slings itself over his shoulders, drawing sharp looks from nearly everyone in close proximity to the pair of them, including the people that up till that moment, Jason had been calling conversation partners. Jason keeps his arms crossed and doesn’t react, no matter how much he sort of wants to put a bullet right in that sculpted black mask.

“ _Red_ ,” the bastard says, glee all but dripping from his voice. “Don’t see you at these things much, darling. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

He realizes, now, that it had been a mistake to flirt with Roman. In his defense, it worked beautifully at the time, but he didn’t realize that some doors can’t be closed again, and Roman is a persistent son of a _bitch_.

“I got an invitation,” he answers, glad of the protection of his helmet in that moment, both so that he doesn’t have to smell Roman’s eternally overpowering use of cologne, and that his blatant expression of disgust at his presence isn’t visible.

“ _Oh_ , dear… On the out and outs with the big old Bat again, are we? You poor darling.” Roman’s hand squeezes his shoulder, slips down a little in a way that one might dismiss as accidental, if you weren’t familiar with him. “How about you take off that stuffy helmet and we get you a drink, hm?”

“No thanks,” Jason says, biting his tongue to keep from slamming his elbow right into Roman's sternum, "I'm not thirsty."

Roman's arm settles around his back, hand slipping beneath his arm to hold his side instead. "Sure you are. Come with me; there's an open bar, we'll get some of that whiskey you like. I know this—" the hand not sneaking down his side waves, highlighting the poisonous green drink in its wide-brimmed glass "—isn't your choice of drink, sweetheart."

"Neither are _you_." Jason lowers his voice, deepens it to be a clear warning, even through the mechanical filter of his helmet. "And if your hand goes any lower, Roman, I'm going to snap it off."

Behind the mask, Roman's eyes glint and narrow. "Promises, promises." His hand does lift, though, coming to clasp over his near shoulder instead of wrapping around his back. "You know that's why I like you, Red. All that violence under there, just waiting to come out and play. Now…" The hand tightens, aches a little as it presses his armor into his skin. "Come get a drink, Red. For old time's sake."

Jason bites his tongue harder, and doesn't ( _doesn't_ ) put a fist right in Roman's throat just to hear him choke. " _Roman…_ "

"I think the answer's 'no,' Sionis," a familiar, amused voice says from somewhere just behind them.

Turning to see who it is gives him the perfect excuse to not so gently knock Roman's hand off his shoulder, letting his knuckles press sharply into the vulnerable, tender skin of his wrist, right between the glove and the start of his sleeve. Roman hisses, shooting him a sour look, but that pales in the face of discovering exactly who is standing behind them. Black and orange suit from neck to toe, sword visible over one shoulder, enough height even Jason has to tilt his head back slightly to meet that single, pale blue eye looking down at him. The white hair, beard, and eyepatch are completely unnecessary confirmations of identity, at that point.

Deathstroke looks from him to Roman, and raises an eyebrow.

Roman scoffs, chin lifting as if to prove he's not intimidated. "Nobody _asked_ you, Wilson."

Slade doesn't seem at all concerned by the hostile tone or the posturing, but why should he be? One of the deadliest assassins in the world, enhanced in almost every way, up against a crime boss from Gotham?

Roman can be nasty as hell, and he's no slouch when it comes to muscle, but Jason would bet on Deathstroke every single time. Hands down.

"Doesn't make me wrong." Slade's arms cross, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "By all means, though, continue. I'll just watch."

The skull mask makes it hard to see exactly what Roman's face does, but Jason's real sure it's not pretty. He'd lay bets there's an outright snarl under there, or a sneer. "I only play in front of curated audiences. You don't make the cut, Wilson." The way Roman turns away from Slade is an obvious dismissal, head held high as if he's got nothing to fear. "When you want that drink, Red, you know where I'll be."

As if. "Feel free to wait."

Roman's eyes are narrowed behind the mask. "I will. For a while." It sounds more like a threat than anything else. Then Roman's turning, tossing, " _Later_ , Red!" over his shoulder in near sing-song and striding off, that stupid green drink still balanced in one hand.

Jason rolls his eyes behind the helmet, because he can, before he turns his head to Slade. His former conversation partners have long since fucked off, anyway. "I didn't need your help," he points out.

One sharp flick of that single blue eye seems to see right down to his bones. "I know. Tangled with your brother enough times to know how well the Bat trains his little birds."

Right. Deathstroke's come up against Dick more than a few times, never quite killed him, but Dick hasn't always managed to keep him from his targets, either. Stalemate. Deathstroke's got a reputation for a reason.

"I don't know what you're talking about," comes out of his mouth on automatic, denying any connection, per usual.

Slade only smiles. Then he takes a very deliberate look in the direction Roman went, lifting an eyebrow. "Sionis your kind of company, Hood?"

He can't help the snort. "No. Roman's a jackass."

"That's the reputation." Slade's gaze is steady on his, as if there's no helmet in the way to block view of his eyes. "How'd you get familiar with him, then? Last I heard, you'd all but dismantled his entire network. Doesn't usually lend itself to sex, in my experience."

The laugh that bursts out of his throat is short and sharp. "Sex? Yeah, I don't fucking think so. He's not my type, but flirting sure did get me into all his systems, when I needed it."

Slade's expression is amused, and vaguely approving around the edges. "Rare to find a man in our line of work willing to openly flirt with others, even just to manipulate them."

Jason blinks behind the helmet, that statement slowly winding through his mind till it clicks. Our line. Open. "Yeah," he agrees, trusting the instinct in his gut telling him what that specific choice of words implies, "it is."

The approval solidifies to something a little more concrete. "Always nice to know where people like us stand."

Slade Wilson, Deathstroke, one of the deadliest men in the world, is something distinctly not straight. That's interesting. That could be useful to him someday.

That could be useful to him today, actually.

Deathstroke is Dick's enemy. An old enemy. When it comes to the list of people that Dick would absolutely take Jason's acquaintance with personally, Slade's gotta be near the top. It's reckless, it's dumb, but it will _absolutely_ piss off Dick and that's kind of the goal right now. Slade doesn't strike him as dangerous, anyway, not in that way. It'll probably be nice enough, physically.

Jason shifts a little to the side, and a little closer. "Yeah," he repeats, but quieter this time, more intimate. "It is."

Slade huffs out an amused breath. "Really, kid? Just after you admitted to flirting with Black Mask to get into his computers? Feel like I should be offended."

“You’re not Roman.” Jason says, with an easy roll of his shoulders. “For one, you’re better looking. And two, unless we’ve all been particularly blind the last few years, you’re not running a secret crime ring to warrant my attention that way.” He cocks his head, sharpens his smile slightly, even though Slade can’t see it. “I’m not the golden boy, Slade. My scruples don’t run that high.”

“Really?” Slade’s smile is just as sharp, and now the rake of his eye over Jason’s body just that bit more blatant. “That’s good to know.”

 _Come on,_ Jason thinks, eyeing the not-quite-interested-enough posture, the lingering look, _take the bait_. “Of course, if you’re not interested…”

Before he can quite lean away again, Slade’s hand reaches and catches his elbow, tugging him in even closer. “Didn’t say that, kid,” he murmurs, almost against his ear, “But just so you know, I like to play rough.”

“What a coincidence,” Jason says, not skipping a beat, “So do I.”

It's not a lie. When he's had sex, he's always appreciated biting, nails, whatever. He's not interested in _Roman's_ idea of rough — better classified as mean — but he's pretty sure Slade's not talking about knives, whips, and chains. And if he is, well, he doesn't seem like the type to begrudge a misunderstanding. (And if he’s wrong about all these things… He’ll put up a hell of a fight, and he’ll make it his new mission to put a bullet between Slade Wilson’s eye… and patch. Let him try and heal from that.)

Slade doesn’t quite laugh, but the huff of air is probably pretty close to qualifying. “Where are you staying?” he asks, and Jason grins behind the helmet, with no one to see but him.

Hook, line, and sinker.

“A hotel in the city. Fifteen minutes away.”

Slade’s smirk is full of promise. “That’ll do.”

* * *

Jason’s back cracks into the wall hard enough to wind him a little, and any air he might have had left is immediately stolen by the mouth that takes his, teeth digging into his lip till he gasps. His still gloved hands scrape over the plates of Slade’s armor, looking for something to hold onto, but they get grabbed and pressed into the wall on either side of his head before he can manage.

He twists against the grip, wriggles. Doesn’t get anywhere.

“You can touch later,” Slade says against his mouth, voice a low rumble that Jason actually finds himself appreciating the feel of.

He pulls a little more. His, “I’d rather touch now,” is a lot more breathless than Slade’s, but sue him, he’s just human.

The hands around his wrists squeeze, hard enough it aches, hard enough to pull a grunt from him and get his cock to twitch, a little. He’s probably going to have some decent bruising; not like that’s new.

“If you insist, kid.”

The hands let go, but then suddenly he’s being spun, cracked back up against the wall face-first this time. A hand grabs the back of his neck in just enough time to pin him flat against the ugly grey-green patterned wallpaper. Armor presses up against his back, grinding him into the wall, catching him between the two unforgiving surfaces.

He groans, glad in that moment for his own armor, taking the worst of it for him. “Oh come on; there’s no way you can even feel anything through all that.”

Slade’s teeth graze over the shell of his ear, curving down enough that the weight of the rest of him comes off his back. “You assume that feeling is the point.”

Jason yelps at the sharp crack of a hand against his ass, jolting forward against the wall. _Not_ curving down; deliberately getting out of the way so he can—

“Ah!”

Even through the thick fabric of his pants, it _hurts_. Not the first time that someone’s spanked him, but _ouch_ , superhuman strength is no joke, and neither are those fucking gauntlets. Talk about bruises; if Slade's just getting started, he's going to end up with quite the rainbow of colors back there. It'll probably be the good kind of ache, though. Those usually are.

The third smack pushes him up on his toes, hips shoving into the wall as he grits his teeth and groans. He's definitely a little hard, but really that feels secondary to his awareness of the heat and ache in his ass. He tenses just to feel it more sharply, grinds his teeth and exhales just in time for another strike to push the last bit of air out in a breathless sound he's just a little embarrassed of making. High, strained.

"Too rough for you?" Slade asks in a murmur, hand coming to rest on his ass, fingers squeezing into the new soreness. "I can tone it down, if you can't take it."

It's blatant, challenging manipulation, but Jason feels himself bridle against the idea anyway. He takes a breath just to snort it out, and presses his hands into the wall. "You're not anywhere close to what I can take, old man."

“Really.” He feels Slade huff out a laugh against his neck. “Let's test that.”

It's been a long time since Jason got pulled around by the scruff of his neck, but that's exactly what Slade does. The hand at his neck tightens and then pulls him back, keeping him high up on his toes as Slade drags him across the room, as if he's not two-hundred damn pounds of somewhat resisting muscle. The room's small enough that by the time he gets his feet actually underneath him, Slade's already tossing him down over the foot of the bed.

Slade's hand situates itself right in between his shoulder blades, bearing down with enough pressure that Jason feels more like somebody's pressing their knee into his back instead. He groans and chokes a little, boots scraping against the cheap carpeting and fingers digging into the comforter as he tries to push upwards. Slade chuckles.

"Kid, you can fight me all day, you're not going to get anywhere." A little more pressure, driving another inch or so of air out of his lungs. "How about you just settle down and take what I dole out, like a good boy?"

Jason wheezes out a laugh, baring his teeth in a grin only half-hidden in the sheets of the bed. "You think I'm going to make your job easier, old man? Thought you were supposed to be the best; you can't handle a little bit of a fight?"

He can't see it from the angle his head is at, but he feels pressure slot up against his ass and back, and the downwards shift of the bed over one shoulder. It isn't hard to imagine Slade's other hand braced next to his head, body leaning down over and into him, even before Slade murmurs, "I wasn't trying to make it easier on _me_ , kid," almost directly into his ear.

Instinct suggests he snap his head back, nail Slade right in the face. He tamps it down. "Easy doesn't sound like nearly as much fun."

The dark rumble of, "I agree," sounds downright predatory. "If you've got limits, say them now, kid."

His breath feels hard-earned. "Nothing broken. Nothing permanent. No weapons. If I say stop, you listen."

"Alright." Slade's hips press against his ass, waking the dull ache there once again. "And when I _fuck_ you, do you want protection, kid? Doesn't matter to me; I can't catch or carry anything."

It feels like a splash of cold water, bringing him sharply back down from the wild anticipation to the actual reality of what this encounter is. Sex. Right. That's what he bargained for, not just the manhandling and the promise of bruises and aches. Well, it's a fair enough trade. He'll enjoy enough of it, and this was never about his own gratification anyways. Slade gets to enjoy himself, and he gets what he really came for: a way to royally piss off Dick.

He breathes in, as much as he can. "It's fine. I don't care."

There's a moment where everything feels off. Slade doesn't move, doesn't answer him. His brow tugs into a frown at the lack of response. Was that the wrong answer? Is he supposed to care more about a thing like that, to look normal? It's not like he has reason to think Slade's out to give him some STD or something, and he knows enough about the enhancements that he's inclined to believe that Slade's telling the truth, anyway.

Slade's hand comes off his back, and all of a sudden he's being grabbed and flipped. His world whirls, and then he's on his back and Slade's leaning over him, one hand pinning his shoulder down, blue eye narrowed and sharp. Jason feels his hackles rise, his teeth flashing as he starts to squirm.

"Hey—”

"Shut up, kid."

Jason's teeth click as he closes his mouth, warning bells going off in the back of his head at the tone and the look. Slade's studying him, intent in a very different way that feels all too dangerous, and then just as Jason's starting to wind tight to do some kind of preemptive strike he's snorting and pulling back. The weight comes off his shoulder as Slade backs off, putting a couple steps-worth of distance between them, his mouth in a flat line.

"What the fuck are you doing, Hood?"

Jason pushes up, getting out of the weird half-lying angle the position had him in to sit at the end of the bed, instead. He doesn't stand, not yet. "I thought we were pretty fucking clear about this," he snaps, trying to judge whether Slade's become an actual threat. "What's the problem? You want me to do some kind of reluctance roleplay or something? Cause that's not my thing. You should have been upfront about shit like that, if that's what you wanted."

Slade doesn't react, until the very end. Then his eye narrows a little further. "I don't appreciate being bullshitted."

"I don't—”

"You're not interested in this."

Jason's mouth snaps shuts for the second time. He pauses. "What are you—?"

" _Kid_ ," Slade cuts him off with, voice a dark, deep rumble, "I only let people use me when they're paying for it. And if I wanted uninterested sex, I'd be buying it. So are you going to be straight with me, or are we done here?"

Shit.

Well, obviously his plan's fucked. That's new. No one's ever called him out on not being interested before, but maybe he was overestimating his own acting abilities, thinking he could fool someone with enhanced senses, intelligence, and perception.

He gets up, shifting his shoulders against the remaining ache lingering between them. "I didn't peg you as someone who would be so invested in enthusiastic participation," he hedges, testing the boundaries. "That always a thing with you?"

Slade snorts, crossing his arms. "There are plenty of people that want to sleep with me, kid. I don't need to stoop to the ones that are just doing it to get something."

"Fair enough." It's not really a conscious decision, but he finds himself mirroring the posture. Arms crossed, chin lifted just a little to hold Slade's gaze. "Alright, fine. Nightwing," he admits. "I'm looking to piss off Nightwing and you seemed like a great way to do it. Golden-boy tends to take it personally when people fuck around with his enemies."

For a moment, it seems like Slade's judging whether he's telling the truth. Apparently he passes muster. Slade's arms uncross, the corner of his mouth tugging into a wry smirk. "You're not wrong." One hand braces on a hip, and Slade looks him up and down. "Tell you what, kid. You send me fifty grand, I'll make sure the right people think we did a little more than talk. I'll even convince your big brother, if he shows up at my door."

His eyebrows lift. "That's a hell of a charge for spreading a rumor."

"My time's worth a lot of money, Hood. You're getting the discounted rate." He steps closer, a hand lifting, and it's slow enough Jason lets it cup the side of his face, thumb hooking under his jaw. "I don’t like being lied to, kid, but if you ever decide that you are interested in me, give me a call. I'd be happy to continue things when they're a little more mutual."

He swallows. Maybe it's not smart, with the gauntleted hand of a superhuman at his neck, but something reckless climbs up his throat and has him saying, "You'll never get that call," before he thinks through how Slade might react to that.

But Slade only tilts his head, studying him with a calmer, curious edge. "Not into men, Hood?"

He shrugs with all the dismissive idleness he doesn't remotely feel. "Not into anyone. It's nothing personal."

He's never said that before. Not to anyone. Letting people assume whatever they want to about his sexuality has always served him better than trying to explain otherwise.

Slade studies him another few moments, then laughs, low and genuinely amused, rather than mocking. "Fair enough. Well, keep me in mind anyway, kid." Slade leans in, voice lowering to a wicked rumble. "I can enjoy bruising up your ass without having to fuck it afterwards, you know."

The flush takes him completely by surprise. He sputters, sucking in a sharp breath.

Slade smirks. "I'll send you my number, kid. You feel like exploring any of that, give me a call. I always enjoy putting bruises on pretty, mouthy boys. Won't even cost you."

His cheeks are burning, and he can't seem to find the words to refute or agree or even _respond_ to that. He— It—

Slade pulls away from him, still smirking. "I'll send you the transfer information. See you around, kid."

All he manages is a still strangled-sounding, "Okay."

And then Slade's striding towards the door, letting it fall shut behind him with the same slow deliberation as any hotel room. It isn't until the sound of it clicking shut jars his mind free of the shock that he realizes what just happened.

Jesus Christ.

He swallows, and scrubs a hand over his face, over the phantom warmth lingering at his jaw, where Slade’s hand was resting. Maybe… Maybe he needs to do some research. It’s not often that he feels uninformed, but something about how confident Slade was makes him think that maybe he needs to read up on some stuff before he takes Slade up on that offer.

 _If_ he takes Slade up on the offer. _If_.

His phone chimes an alert at him, from the inner jacket pocket it’s still hiding in. Automatically, he pulls it out. Looks at the incoming text.

A routing number, an apparent reminder of the amount (fifty-thousand, in easy shorthand numbers and a capital K), and a cell phone number below.

Fuck.

Pissing off Dick, _and_ getting Slade's personal number? Maybe fifty grand is cheap after all.

**Author's Note:**

> [Skali's tumblr](https://skalidra.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Fire's tumblr](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/)


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